Pillow Talk
by Beloved of Apollo
Summary: Or, a series of both related and unrelated one-shots exploring relaxed, intimate conversations between a certain pirate and his leggy swan. There's bonding to be found, mates. Not to mention love, sex, and a healthy dash of humor. It's time to get tangled up in love, and finds out what happens once the dirty talk ends. Get ready for some sweaty cuddling and caressing, dear readers.
1. Three of a Kind

I love series of unrelated one-shots. Especially the smutty kind. So I'm trying my hand at it!

Sort of.

I'd rather tackle afterglow.

* * *

_Title: A Pleasant Sort of Burn_

_Pairing: Irish Swan_

* * *

God, his mouth tasted like shit. Like dried yeast on the bottom of a keg or a bootblack's rag. He'd imbibed alcohol. And lots of it, if the sour fuzziness coating his teeth was to be trusted. Graham worked his mouth around his tongue, trying to move some saliva over it. It was thick and lolled in his mouth as he licked the roof of his mouth. He hadn't just guzzled whiskey and porter, he'd _marinated_ in it. His brain pounded behind his eyes like a drum solo, and his stomach churned like it was stuck on spin cycle. Saints above, he'd _never_ had so much to drink. Why had he tried to replace his stomach acid with stout?

Blinking seemed a terrible chore, made even more difficult by the crud seaming his eyelashes together. But after a few college tries, he got most of the sleep off, allowing him to flutter his eyes open. The ceiling above him was completely unfamiliar. His efficiency had acoustical drop tiles – this one was paneled with weathered shiplap.

How did he get to this strange apartment, and why did he feel the need to lubricate that journey with every last drop of booze Storybrooke had to offer?

Graham rubbed a paw over his eye and bowed his back forward into an arch. No less than seven joints popped as he stretched. Beneath his bare shoulders and butt – definitely naked – warm cotton sheets molded and slid against his muscles. Definitely naked and definitely on a bed, one more comfortable than his own. It wasn't the downy pillow top or springy coils that surpassed his mattress. His had both in spades (a gift from Regina – ick). No, this one was better because it smelled of woodsy flowers, crystalline water and the first flush of grass after a summer storm.

This bed smelled of _Emma_.

Of the delicate lace scalloping the neckline of her camisole, the short wisps of hair at the base of her neck, the skin dipping in the hollows of her collarbones. Sweet, sumptuous Emma. Was she still there?

_Yes_, Graham marveled to himself as he dipped head to the right. _There she is_. On her side, turned away from him, she was all gems and precious stones in the darkness of the room. The blue light of the moon peeking through the window turned her skin to pearl, and the curls that feathered over her pillow were silver filaments. With the sheet pulled down around her hips, he could easily trace the shadowed dips of her spine with his eyes, with his hands.

Why shouldn't he? They'd gotten to this place in a far more intimate way. It started with a dare, Graham remembered. That yeoman from the docks, Killian Jones, had been undressing Emma with his eyes for the better part of the evening. Emma had noticed and done nothing except smile and banter and _flirt _with the sailor, until he stepped between them. _Go home with a real man_, he dared her. Killian goaded him by saying she'd been about to until a certain boy scout showed up.

As he looked Emma straight in the soul, he saw her expression grow from peeved to intrigued. Challenge accepted, her tilted brows and pursed lips screamed.

That wasn't the last time she screamed.

She screamed until her voice cracked, and rather than flee once she'd finished claiming her pleasure… to say the least, she certainly didn't behave like the Emma who came to work eternally pissed off. Graham thought the sex would've sent her running, that Emma the Sex Kitten would flee without said sex to distract her. But without the sex, Emma the Sex Kitten became, well, Emma the Kitten. She purred and wiggled around, squirming until she'd found the perfect napping position. Before she fell asleep, she joked and she teased, something so unlike Emma that Graham was worried he'd fucked the abrasiveness right out of her. Then, as she laughed, when she let herself be tickled and cuddled, he prayed for the same thing. Afterglow with Emma was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, so much so that he needed more.

Rolling onto his side, he squirmed his way across the king sized bed, aligning himself from hip to shoulder with her. Graham curled into a comma around Emma, until every inch of his chest was glued to her much narrower back. She sighed in her sleep and rotated her shoulders back against his bulk. He mumbled affection against her neck, hoisting his leg over her hip to draw her closer.

"The room's too cold," he whispered into her hair, before slinging his arm loosely around her waist. She gave the most delicious mew at the extra weight, burrowing further into the warmth of the pillow beneath her. "I'll keep you warm."

"Get your drunk, Irish ass _off_ of me this instant."

That was not a mew, and it most certainly did not come from Emma.

Eyes nearly bugging out of his head, Graham picked his head up from Emma's crown. It only took a minute for his eyes to find the owner of the gruff, sleep-roughened voice. Ocean-grey eyes glared at him from three days of beard growth. A long moment passed where all he could do was stare at the far-too-masculine face, so ridiculously out of place in what felt like a marriage bed.

And then a long-fingered, rope-weathered hand clapped down on his face and violently shoved him away. Things stopped feeling marital right about then.

Graham gasped as he rolled to the other side of the bed, thrust clear away from Emma's pliant body. Sputtering as he righted himself in the mess of pillows and quilts, he shook unruly brown curls from his forehead and got a better look at the pesky interloper, dismayed by what he saw.

Upon first awaking, he thought Emma was simply turned away from him. Not so, he now saw. Her pale, sinuous form wasn't curled around a cushion or comforter. She was plastered against Killian Jones's side, her head on his chest and arm around his waist. The reason Graham hadn't noticed his fellow bedmate was because at the start of his impromptu cuddling, Killian had both arms under his head. Now, they were both wrapped like iron bands around Emma's slim shoulders.

Oh. _Damn_. That's right. Emma hadn't wanted to go home with just one real man. She'd gone home with two. And they hadn't gone home, he now realized. They'd gone to Killian's home by the bay. Graham smelled the salt and brine of low tide and heard the waves lapping outside the window. If that wasn't enough, that leather Paletot coat Killian always wore was draped over a velvet wingback. Alongside Emma's lacy black bra and matching undies.

Killian was much quicker to recover. "Go away," he whispered as loudly as he could without waking Emma. "Go away _right now_."

Graham bristled at the command, rising up on to his hands. He swore he growled when he saw Killian stroke his one broad hand up and down Emma's back. All of the memories he'd blissfully made with Emma that night washed over him, and every one of them featured an unwelcome guest star.

His first kiss with Emma came after Killian's.

Killian had been the first to press his mouth between her thighs.

While Graham rode Emma hard into the bed, her legs coiled tightly around his hips, Killian plucked at her nipples and bit marks into her shoulders, breasts, and one far too close to the neckline of her shirt.

Everything he did to Emma, Killian did as well. Even after, when the mood turned from wanton to lighthearted, Killian was there, smoothing his stubbly chin against her ear while Graham tickled her with stomach with his nose. The whole time the three of them were… um… _frolicking_, however, the two men never addressed each other. Didn't look at each other, didn't speak, nothing. He remembered at one point, when Emma sleepily laughed at something Killian said, bubbly and golden like French champagne, Graham laughed as well. But only because her laughter made him joyous.

"I am not going home," he hissed with all the venom of a flared cobra, still propped on his hands. "She invited both of us here, and when she wakes up, _both of us_ will be here. Keep calm, for god's sake."

"This is _my_ house," Killian barked angrily, rolling slightly onto his side, probably to appear less vulnerable. Flat on your back with nearly everything hanging out was the perfect position for being punched. "I will not keep calm, and you can fuck right off."

Yep. Killian definitely needed to be punched, but as Graham reached over to flick him between the eyes, Emma mewled again. This time it was an unhappy sound, marked by goose bumps and a knitted brow. Both men went still and silent as Emma burrowed further into Killian's chest. Graham seethed at the intimacy of her hold, at the way Killian cooed to Emma when he tucked her closer. He saw the affection in Killian's eyes as he flattened his mouth over her forehead. Too much affection. Much like Emma was someone entirely unexpected after a thorough rodgering, so was Killian. Gone was the brash, piss-and-vinegar seadog, and in its place was a doting husband.

Goddamn, that was _his_ job.

"I'm not going anywhere," Graham finally bit out, and just to annoy the old salt, he reached to the foot of the bed where the main quilt had been kicked down. Killian narrowed his eyes, glaring as Graham tenderly wrapped the green coverlet around Emma's shoulders. "We both deserve to wake up to her."

Flopping down onto the pillows, Graham crossed his arms beneath his head, fully prepared to fall asleep next to his lady love, and the other man she used for a stud service.

But Killian? He was having none of that.

"Oh really?" he purred dangerously. "We'll _see_."

Brow cocked high on his forehead, Graham watched in boredom as Killian gently laid Emma in the bed, right before he slid out of it. Immediately, Graham reached for Emma, smoothing his fingers over her rounded cheeks, her stubborn chin. He wouldn't lie and say that she had a pleasant face. Beautiful, yes, but pleasant? No, she frowned too much too look pleasant. But when she slept, and the corners of her eyes relaxed, she –

"I'm about to burn you good, sheriff boy."

_What?_

"Just go take a slash already, you dumb deckhand." Rolling his eyes, Graham looked up, fully prepared to give Killian quite the lashing, only to see the other man sliding the window open with his hand…

While waving his clothes, boots and holster around with his hook.

Still crouched over Emma, Graham's eyes went wide as saucers in terror. "What the hell are you doing?!" Killian's answering grin was malicious. Without so much as a warning, he threw every last one of Graham's possessions out the window, to the dock three stories below.

Oh God.

Oh _fuck_.

"You have two choices, _crossing guard Humbert_. You can either leave my flat straightaway to gather your underthings in the dead of night when no one can see you, or do it in the morning, right as all of my fellow deckhands are mending their nets. I'm sure some of them would go for a man with no tan lines. This being a modern world and all."

Graham could only gape in shock.

"Times a-ticking, security guard," Killian all but gloated, hand and hook on his hips as gloried in his victory. "I told you I'd burn you good."

* * *

Killian couldn't say he appreciated the male form too much, but as he watched Sheriff Graham Humbert scurry around in the darkness, frantically gathering his clothes, he couldn't recall a more attractive sight. Three stories below him, the taller, tanner man scampered around desperately in nothing but his button down shirt, holster and boxer shorts. Based on his speed and state of undress, Killian strongly suspected that the rest of his clothing was somewhere beneath the waves. Thank God his schooner was at a different dock, otherwise it'd probably have sunk in a hail of gunfire.

Burned good, indeed.

"You know, for having a forest on your chest and quite the happy trail, your shoulders and ass are remarkably hairless."

Smiling to himself, Killian closed the window and the blinds, leaving the sheriff to flounder alone in the darkness. Pompous git.

Turning back to his sweet honeycomb, Killian realized he was wrong. He _could_ recall a more attractive sight. It was Emma, curled into his pillows and blankets, her chin propped in her slender hand as her eyes raked over him. That glorious hair fell in finger-tousled curls over her milky breasts, and her nipples were still rosy and kiss-bruised from when he'd suckled them into tight, little beads.

Needless to say, Graham hadn't touched them _once._

"Smooth as a baby's bottom, love?" he joked as he swaggered over to the bed, naked as the day he was born. Odd to say, the mood hardly felt sexual. He wasn't erect by any stretch of the imagination (though that could be amended), and Emma was too sleepy-eyed, too limp and tenderized to move an inch. Even holding her own head up seemed to be too much trouble, as she let her head fall to the pillow with both hands tucked beneath her cheek.

"No, you're still a furry bastard," she murmured as he crawled back under the covers. "Like a lion. But I like it."

It seemed that the cuddly, post-coital Emma was still around, because as soon as he'd pulled the blanket up over them, she was looking to cuddle. First she tried to tuck herself securely into his side, but no amount of wriggling or contortionism made her comfortable in that position. Chuckling, he helped her hitch her legs over and between his, adjusting her until she was draped over his chest, stretched over him from ankle to shoulders.

"Sleep, my darling," he whispered as she flattened her cheek over his heart. She whimpered her agreement and went limp as a ragdoll, but not before asking the most obvious question of the evening. Outside of will it fit.

With some preparation, he was happy to say it did.

"Where'd Graham go?"

Killian brought his one hand up to cradle the back of Emma's head, his incomplete arm barred tightly around her waist.

"Regina called him. Said it was urgent. He hopped out of here, like… actually, like he'd been burned." One more kiss was pressed to her brow, and then her breath deepened and evened out. His good girl was asleep. He was anything but.

He thought back to the bar, to the continuation of their perpetual flirting. He flirted with her because she was beautiful and fascinating. She flirted back because Emma never backed down from a challenge. He'd led himself to believe it meant nothing.

And then tonight happened. The drinks at the bar, the game of pool he coyly pulled her into, all of it was a ploy to break her. No, not to hurt her, not to ruin her by any means. She was prickly as a cactus, and annoying to boot, but he only wanted to break her enough to get a glimpse at the real Emma. Not the thorns or dry wit. To see if, behind those walls, Emma might find him to be someone worth knowing.

Then that bloody, buggering fuck Graham had to show up and tempt Emma away from him. He knew the sheriff wanted to fuck her brains out when Regina wasn't whipping him into submission. Emma looked at the Dublin twit the same way sometimes, much like the way she looked at him whenever she came to the docks. Sometimes to arrest him, but other times, just to look at his maps or learn how to tie a new knot. He saw a glimpse of the Emma he was holding now in that woman who mended sails with him. Behind her walls, Emma was many things. Wounded, haunted, soft, pliant, very fond of oral.

"Giving and receiving," Killian chuckled to himself as the need to sleep started lapping at his feet. He could understand why she sought out two men instead of one. Women had needs, sometimes greater than one man could handle.

Although, now that he knew exactly what her needs were, one man would more than suffice.

* * *

I don't know what that was. I was inspired by all the other great writers who tackled Irish Swan, but my brain went in a totally different and much sillier direction.

Blame it on the alcohol!

I don't have a beta for these, because they're too goofy to have one. If you want to see the work of a great beta, check out trustpixiedust. Her stories are amazing.


	2. Silk and Satin

_Title: Love Potions  
_

_Fetish: Satin or Silk_

* * *

In all their years together, Killian never saw Milah bathe. Or cut her hair. Never saw her trim her nails, groom her brows, rouge her cheeks or dot perfume beneath her ears. She woke up painted, polished and plucked. For years, he thought she was just perfection. That everything about her was artless and effortless. Women like her weren't real.

On some level, he knew her flawless façade took effort. He applied kohl every morning to keep the sun's glare at a minimum, and she wore the same charcoal he did. But she was a painted peacock, as pretty as a picture. And all of it was natural.

Then he took up with Emma. Oh, it was nothing serious, she insisted. No one ever saw them together. No courtship for them, Hook commiserated. Or as Emma called it, no _dates_. Date. Such an apropos word for what he wanted. An actual, grownup relationship with Emma would be sweet, exotic and no doubt pitted with hard times. Their combined stubborn streaks would ensure that.

She let him spend the night though, whenever their trysts lasted into the late hours of the evening. Initially, he thought she was worried someone would catch him sneaking from her bedsit. That she was hiding him. Yet, that didn't seem to be the case. If she was ashamed of him, then she should've been ashamed of herself. Shame was such a bitter thing. It made people hide their true selves. Anything to be strong.

Emma hid nothing. She left her dirty laundry piled in the corner and her clean, yet to be folded clothes in a wicker basket by the door. More times than he could count, Emma would just dump their dishes in the sink to wait until morning. Not by any stretch of the imagination was she slovenly. She just didn't feel the need to impress him by cleaning her space. He'd yet to see her bed actually made.

He should've been offended by her complete lack of effort, but it was actually quite flattering. More so than anyone, except for probably her parents, he got to see the real Emma.

But he didn't know how much of the real Emma would be revealed to him until their third time. They'd both been sweaty and grimy from Storybrooke's latest trial – some chimera from the Enchanted Forest that Regina's curse transformed into troublemaking triplets. A potion brewed from common herbs grafted them back into one monstrous form, with one head for each little brat. Goat, lion and snake, and each bonce love to complain about the complete and total lack of satyrs to eat.

Killing the annoyingly mouthy beast took the Prince's sword, Emma's gun and his hook. The true queen's bow would've been nice, but Emma's little brother needed his mother more than they needed arrows. Afterwards, Emma dragged him to her new home, shoved him to the floor and fucked him senseless. Covered in sex as well as chimera blood, they showered the muck off before soaking in the tub. Otherwise they would've been bathing in brain matter soup.

The bath also allotted the opportunity to affirm that the other was alive and unhurt. With tender caresses and aggressive cuddling, they accounted for every finger and strand of hair. If either of them were being ridiculously clingy, they didn't address it.

When the water went cold, they got out and he started to dry off. Emma wrapped herself in her own towel, but instead of patting the water from her skin, she pulled out a rough stone from under the sink and sat down on the toilet. Reasonably intrigued, he halted his post-bath ritual and just watched. To his confusion, she started furiously scrubbing at her heels with the rock. Such self-flagellation was horrifying. Naturally, he tried to stop her, but she only laughed.

"I'm not hurting myself," she assured him even as she continued the abuse. "I'm buffing my heels. My boots dry them out, and I hate going to bed with scaly feet."

Scaly feet? Emma? Surely that wasn't true.

She assured him it was. His disbelief was written all over his fact, which only made her laugh. Emma was so different from Milah, but he'd always assumed that her impeccable body was the result of breeding. Not so. Not so at all.

Over the next few weeks, Emma showed more and more of the real woman she was. Some nights she shaved herself from hip to ankle, and less frequently under her arms. She finger-combed sweet smelling creams into that exquisite, golden mane. The elegant tilt of her brows was kept in check by something she called tweezers. When she blotted some oily liquid onto a wad of cotton and rubbed the stuff across her eyes, the ball came away black. Beneath the cosmetics, her lashes were charmingly blonde, making her eyes appear wider and younger.

And then they were the lotions. The many, _many_ lotions. Emma must've had a different one for every bit of skin. One she smoothed over her breasts to heal the charming little lines on the rounded, outside edges. Stretch marks, she said. A remnant of the weight gained from her pregnancy, weight he couldn't imagine being there. Asides from those stretch marks, her bosom had only been slightly humbled by age. He loved those thin stripes and begged her to stop. No such luck for the pirate.

That was just the beginning. A minty ointment kept her 'buffed' heals silky smooth. An unguent used to moisturize cow udders, with an awful pun as a name, soothed the windburn on her arms and legs. More of the stretch mark cream was rubbed into her hips and beneath her rump for scars he couldn't even see. She even owned a salve just for the dark circles beneath her eyes.

It was fascinating. He loved watching her move her hands over her body, rubbing and massaging and perfecting. Was it arousing? Absolutely. He loved it when she petted herself when they were making love. All men enjoyed that. If they didn't, they were either lying or impotent.

He couldn't call it vanity. Vanity was meant to be seen. The effect of these lotions were meant to be touched. To his knowledge, he was the only person graced with the privilege of her flesh.

(Gods, he hoped this pursuit of silky, satiny skin was for him.)

Tonight was no different. They'd just finished bathing after romping in the kitchen… and on the living room floor, as well as bent over the dining table. Now she was perched on the edge of the tub, kneading her calves with Udderly Smooth bag balm. Gods above, what a stupid name.

"Can I help you?" she asked politely as she looked up from her task. Her hands stilled but remained pressed against her legs.

From his seat on the tiled counter, naked as the day he was born, he smiled and tilted his head to the side.

"Actually, my dear," he cooed lovingly, "It's more a matter of helping you. Would you mind if I did that?"

By the beauty of the starry sky above the sea, he adored the look of astonishment on her pretty face. No one must've offered to do this for her, and he couldn't help but be over the moon. While it was more important to be a woman's last lover than her first, but he would've loved owning Emma's virginity. He could own this though.

To his delight, she handed over the white tub with a shaky hand. He hopped off the counter and plucked it from her waiting fingers. Dropping to his knees, with the lotion held out before him, Killian was strongly reminded of another situation that called for kneeling and gifts. Gods, what a sap he was turning into.

"How far up can I go?" he asked as he dipped his fingers into the silky cream. "Up your legs, I mean."

Before she could respond, he wrapped his lotion covered hands around her ankle. Keeping a firm but comfortable grip, he moved them up her calf. Where she had been utilitarian, he was attentive and thorough. Such effort was well worth the little moan that bubbled up from her throat. Emma was worth the effort.

"You can't go any higher than my hips. It's not meant for sensitive skin, if you get my drift."

He got her drift. Oh, he got it.

"I'll be quite careful."

_But only with my hands._

Every inch of her was precious to him, so he massaged her with uttermost care (or, for the sake of a bad joke, udder-most care). Beneath the pressure of his fingers, she moaned and wiggled against the cast iron tub. Killian took her ticklishness into account - the last time he tried tickling her, she cuffed his jaw. Scraping his nails behind her knees was a complete accident. Pirate's honor. The high-pitched giggle she let out was just a pleasant bonus.

So was the glossiness starting to coat the springy blonde curls between her legs. An interesting, if expected reaction.

"We're well matched," he tried to joke, but the breathy tone of his voice told another story. "You appear to enjoy being touched, and I love the way you feel."

Emma swallowed heavily and lowered her eyes to his hands. "Here," he whispered as he dragged a single finger along the line of muscle running from her right foot up to her calf. He then moved both hands up to her hips. His fingers and palms nearly circled her entire waist when he squeezed her. "And certainly here. You're a finger eight, my dear. A perfect hourglass."

The top of her cheeks flushed rose red. It gave him the courage to slide forward until her knees framed his hips. "And your breasts. Those I can't get enough of." He emphasized his claim with tender kisses pressed against her nipples, then his beloved stretch marks. "But for the love of god, stop trying to get rid of these. Everyone needs a good battle scar."

He gave a little groan when she threaded her hands through his still damp hair, returning his massage with one of her own. Goodness, he didn't even know he liked that. The drag of her nails sent shards of pleasure straight to his dick, and so quickly it was embarrassing, he was hard and aching for her.

"But I'm a grown man. There's one area I can't help but find more attractive than any other part of you."

_Except for your soul, my dear._

The thought gave him pause, but Emma, oh, sweet Emma, she was quick on her feet. Those slender hands applied gentle pressure, urging him down and down and down until he was curled almost against the ground. But it was right where he needed to be.

How sweet she smelled, fragrant as cut fruit. Like a honeyed wine he just needed to taste. So he did.

Opening his breath on a deep inhale, Killian pressed the flat of his tongue against her folds, parting them with a particularly hard lick. She keened long and high as he worked her with his mouth, kissing her until she started writhing. Her fingers kept on combing until his skin tingled pleasantly. When he groaned, she groaned, her thighs trembling in tandem. He remembered receiving what Emma called a hummer, and did his best to mimic that memorable experience.

He moaned against the button at the top of her quim and surrounded it with his lips, flicking it over and over with the tip of his tongue. How he wanted to fuck her with his fingers, but she said it would burn, so he suckled her into oversensitivity. The pulling motion of his mouth brought her nearer and nearer, but she needed a change in texture. His fingers would've done it, but without them, he'd have to settle for pain. Not real pain. The thought of her in pain terrified him.

But she was close, so close as he licked hard stripes against her flesh. She gasped her pleasure, her fingers fluttering against his scalp. It hurt him, her pleasure worth more than all the gold in the Jolly Roger's hold, but it was time to end this.

On her next breath, he growled loudly, and raked his teeth over her clit. The painful love nip was just the ticket. She came long and hard, making a sound somewhere between sobbing and… nope, just sobbing. Killian soaked up the slick rush of pleasure with his tongue, lulling her back to sense with gentle licks and minute sucking. If he pulled away before she was finished, the shock of cold air would be more than unpleasant.

Her pulse slowed against his mouth, and when her hands fell to his shoulders, he pulled back and knelt at attention. They were nose to nose, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't proud of the hazy look on her face. _I did that. Me. My mouth. _

_Mine. She's mine._

When she kissed him, her lips moving sloppily against her own slickness, he knew he was hers.

"Would you mind if I did that?" she whispered against his chin once she'd exhausted her breath. Needing the contact, he nosed the apple of her cheek, his brows knitted since he was slightly baffled. Until he remembered starting this little adventure with that very same question.

"Not at all, love. Knock yourself out."

Somehow, Emma found the strength and sanity to push him back against the ground. The cold tile set him to shivering, but he quickly found himself warming at as she coated her hands in the same lotion he'd just used on her. Any fears he found of being burned were quickly alleviated when she wrapped her hand into a fist around him. Gods, she knew just what to do to send his blood boiling. Her grip was tight enough that she tugged at his flesh even as his skin moved slickly against her palm. The strong, steady pumping kept him on edge even as he relaxed on the floor. Emma always assured him that there was no reason to strain himself when she attended to him, so crossed his arms beneath his head for a pillow and closed his eyes. His good girl continued to return his favors. All of his favors.

On an upward stroke, Emma firmed her grip almost to the point of pain. It didn't last long as she pulled down on his foreskin, revealing what he knew to be glistening flesh in an angry shade of red. At the first press of her tongue against the small fold of tissue just beneath the head of his cock, he felt his pulse start to hammer (she probably felt it as well).

"God love, just like that," he moaned as she sucked at his frenulum, right before she drew the rounded tip into her mouth and hummed around him. And here he thought a woman moaning in pleasure was the sexiest thing ever.

He really should've kept his eyes open, because before he could demand that she stop, Emma sneakily moved her hand beneath his sac, flicking lotion-slicked fingers against his perineum. He could no more stop the needy moan from escaping his throat than he could stop his hands from flying to Emma's shoulders.

"Please love," he whimpered as she stimulated every last nerve ending. "Take pity on me."

Thank the gods she did, otherwise this would've come to a very messy end. One that would require another bath. She left that sensitive patch of nerves, but the damage was done. When she wrapped both hands around the base of his dick, her mouth tightening around the head again, her fingers barely got in one rotation before he was coming into her mouth. She swallowed every last drop of his pleasure, leaving him limp and wrung out underneath her face.

Calling on the last of his strength, he tried to pull Emma up for some very serious cuddling. To his dismay, Emma pulled back and away. He felt cold without her.

"My dear?" he gasped, eyes still closed, two seconds away from begging. "Please, come up here."

Okay, one second.

Killian was just about to go for another round of begging, when Emma returned. Though not in the way he expected, not with cuddling.

She came back with more lotion, warmed up in a set of long-fingered hands wrapped around his calf. He opened his eyes in as much shock as his exhaustion would allow, and propped himself up on his elbows. At his feet, still naked with quite the pleased look on her face, Emma sat with her legs tucked to the side. The spot provided her with just enough room to reach stretch over his legs.

"Your skin's kind of rough," she murmured as she kneaded his muscles like bread. "You know you can borrow my stuff, right? It's gotta be nicer than whatever's on your boat."

"Yes." _My love._ "It certainly is."

(break)

Let me guess. You thought there would be bondage involved when you saw the title, didn't you?

Silly gooses, trusting your gut reactions.


End file.
